Peace of mind can be very noisy

I am reassured when I read that "other families" are noisy too. I know that there are lots of quiet families too, but it’s the noisy ones that give me peace of mind.

We endure a forty minute journey in the car, ironically, to the Humane Society. My daughter sits calmly in the centre back seat, a brother on each side. It is her misfortune in life to be the central divider. Her arms are folded across her chest as she looks out of the window and comments to me on the various points of interest that she sees. “Look mom, do you see that balloon thing?” she bellows but in a mild tone. She has no option but to yell because the amount of noise emanating from her brothers is strong competition.

“Why do boys like bunnies? Why do boys like bunnies? Why do boys like bunnies?” he chants in his robot voice. As usual, I have no idea where he has found this gem. I keep an eye on the GPS map on the dash board as the woman’s voice that provides verbal directions is too quiet to hear. A least I know that my son is coping her voice, even though I still can’t identify the source of the new phrase.

“Internet! Internet! Internet!” he blasts before reverting to the original phrase. I need to install an 'off' switch in this child. His older brother talks in a Pokemon voice and plays out a Pokemon scene, the same scene, the same discourse, the same exchange for the entire journey. Without his medication he has reverted to monosyllabic and echolalic and ever so happy. I’m not sure which one of us is more delighted, him or me? He is no longer irritated by his little brother’s motor mouth. Once again he finds him a source of camaraderie and amusement. Even his distinctive laugh has returned, the one that sounds like the Flamingos in Alice in Wonderland. The Flamingos turned croquet mallets with that infectious giggle. I lack his generous spirit.


“Dogs eat trees, dogs eat glass, dogs eat metal.” He pants afterwards, in dog mode. His brother hoots with laughter and repeats the phrase sotto voce before returning to the Pokemon spiel. “Look Mom, there’s a car with a dent in it. Do you think it was in an accident?”
“Could be,” I answer as non specifically as I can muster.
“Dogs eat pens, dogs eat pans, dogs eat poops.” Cackles of laughter reverberate around the car. I wonder how long we will have to endure the dog stage of development?
“Ooo look, there’s another one that was in an accident, the side is all bashed in.”
“Dogs eat pebbles, dogs eat rocks, dogs eat boulders.”
“They call that a side swipe I think.”
“Dogs eat mountains, dogs eat twigs, dogs eat sticks, woof, woof, woof.” Every so often, his older brother repeats his little brother’s words. Sometimes it’s echolalic, sometimes he’s just giggly. They enjoy a very exclusive brand of humour.
“What do they call it when the back is all smooshed?”
“Dogs eat grass, dogs eat green, dogs eat fields.” Perhaps I should just install volume control?
“Rear ended.”
“Dogs eat men, dogs eat wimmins, dogs eat…..dogs don’t eat kids.”
“What about the front smash?”
“Dogs eat bottles, dogs eat glasses, dogs eat spectacles.”
“Er bonnet bashed?”
“Dogs eat shoes, dogs eat newspapers, dogs eat machines.”
“That must be the English, what’s the American?”
“Dogs eat Italians, dogs eat Frenchians, dogs eat Germ mans.”
“Um fender bender or humped hood.”
“Dogs eat cars, dogs eat bicycles, dogs eat rockets, woof, woof, woof.”
“Are you sure, that doesn’t sound quite right?”
“Dogs eat galaxies, dogs eat clouds, dogs eat worms.” Nothing sounds quite right at the moment, least of all my own brain.


My eyes flick between the rear view mirror and the GPS screen. I need to concentrate so that I don’t miss the exit. I’m not particularly bothered about taking longer to arrive, but I am particularly bothered about spending any additional seconds confined in this moving torture chamber. I long to drive a black taxi cab, the kind from London, where you can pull up a soundproof screen between the driver and the passengers.

I glance back at my daughter. She seems calm. I think she is calm. I decide to check. “Are you alright dear?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well with the noise and all?”
“Oh yeah sure.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Er no. Does it bother you?”
“Well,” I veer to the right a little.
“Are you asking my advice?”
“Er yes, I think I must be?” I admit to my 9 year old daughter.
“Well you just need to shut your eyes and blot it all out, think about other things, peaceful things.” She pauses, “I spose that’s kinda tricky if yur drivin.” I love how she flips between English and American.

I swing into the car park and the last free spot. I take a deep breath, a full lungful, enough to sustain through the next step of our sequence. My mind races through all the pitfalls that the next hour holds for us. Will we succeed or will we have to beat a hasty retreat? My youngest son bellows, “d’you know dah one fing dat a dog can’t eat?”

We all look at him. It appears to be a genuine question and he has everyone’s attention. “A dog cannot be eating his own tongue cohttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifz den he will not be able to woof.”

My car is stationery. The rubber wheels are parked on the concrete. My car jiggles as the occupants giggle.

If you find this page difficult to load, or hard to comment upon, you can visit me at my duplicate "loads like a dream" site "here" or check out my other over "here."

Saturday Award time again!

"Melinda" from "Dear Noah"s blog honoured me with the "Nice Matters Award"......be sure to check her out at the link! THANKS again "Melinda."

I don't think I've ever been a bonus before.




This award is for those bloggers who are nice people; good blog friends and
those who inspire good feelings and inspiration. Also for those who are a
positive influence on our blogging world. Once you’ve been awarded please
pass it on to 7 others who you feel are deserving of this award.

SO I now have to PASS the torch so to speak to 7 others who I feel fit the above description. SO my nominees are:

"Crystal" at "Crystal Jigsaw."

"Niksmom"

at "Maternal Instincts."

"Mom" at "Joeymom" as I'm not sure who wishes to remain anonymous.

"Dan" at "Dan's blah blah blog."

"Gretchen" at "Gretchen's Blog."

"Heidi" at "The Woodvale Diaries."

"Melody" at "Slurping Life." [now that we've managed to find each other again!]

"Linda" at "Are we there yet."

This is fun! I could go on forever and just pull over all my bookmarks.

"Joker" at "the musings of a lurcher."

"I am Bossy" because she is and I love her style.

"Kailani" at "An Island Life"

Can't forget "Flutter" of course, even though she's often hard to pin down over at "fluttercrafts" but that's arty types for you.

But those arty types have a way of squirming their way into your radar, just like "Pippert" in the "artful flower."

I may have to do another one of these dooberries now that I've got the hang of it.


"Slouching Mom" not to be confused with Sloughing Mum! And you can also find her "here" will her other "pals."

"Jocelyn" at "O Mighty Crisis."

"Janet" over at "Just a Mom."


"Melissa" at "mejojacspot" how can one resist the ever changing template!

"MOM-NOS" at "Mom Not Otherwise Specified" because I very much miss her regular postings.

What can I say? I read a lot of blogs! And these are so few of them. So that's insomnia for you.

Hmm.......I'm only a quarter way through my bookmarks. Nevermind, I'll try and do better next time. Can I do three more? Is that breaking the rules? What are the rules? Where is the hand book? I need another manual to not read.

So where am I now? Is that 7? Sevenish? Near enough.

So if Melinda can cheat with a bonus, then I can too!

"Michelle" at "Scribbit" as it's a jolly good spot to lurk and pretend you're normal.

Post Script - if anyone has any hints about how you put these awards on your sidebar.......?
Yours
The technically challenged one!

Fish or fowl?

It’s definitely a kid thing, I think I can be confident in asserting that distinction. I’ve never seen or read about any adult doing it. I don’t think it’s an autism thing. I think it’s a sensory thing, which usually amounts to faulty wiring somewhere along the system. That said, because adults don’t do it, this must mean that whatever it is, disappears as you grow up. Perhaps you feel the same way, but find better ways of dealing with the matter? I need grown ups to tell us, let us in on the secret.

It’s an odd thing to watch, but not a pleasant thing to observe. You can sort of see it happening but for some reason, you’re not able to stop them doing it, at least not in time.

The child sits before the bowl of food. It can be any kind of food but something that in theory, they’re willing to eat. They also do it with food that they really like, preferred food, so it’s not a question of taste or even hunger. Sometimes they’re in a hurry and that might explain it sometimes, but now I’ve seen it in my own two boys and another boy, who is not biologically related to us, I can only conclude that it’s more common than I thought.

Say it’s something like Goldfish crackers, just for a handy example that happens to be a preferred food for any number of children for some unaccountable reason. They munch handfuls of the things. Chomp, chomp, chomp, even if they’re not very good at mastication. Before they’ve swallowed the mouthful, they stuff another handful in and then another. You can see it register in their eyes first, a glimmer of confusion quickly followed by alarm, quickly followed by ejection.

I suspect that these type of children are also wired with super strong gag reflex, which is just as well under the circumstances. The chin will drop and a tongue will slowly disgorge a perfect pellet of pounded putridness, half the size of a cricket ball, considerably large than the size of the oral cavity itself and shaped like a quenelle. Broadly speaking they do not appear to be overly traumatized by the experience and often start to eat a fresh handful of Goldfish without skipping a beat.



It doesn’t look like greed. It looks like an owl regurgitating, slow, deliberate and controlled. Do they forget to swallow? Do they have no taste buds? Do they lack the musculature to manipulate the food to the back of their throats? Do they not register that their mouths are already full? Of course I can’t be sure, and I expect it differs from one child to another, but for mine I think it’s a combination of the latter with a general lack of interest in food.

What’s your experience? Does this make any sense? Have you ever known an adult to do this?

Lack of qualifications

There are many problems, sorry ‘issues’, associated with autism.

The primary issue is a serious lack of qualifications in parents.

Whilst the averagely pregnant person isn’t qualified for parentdom, neither is the average parent qualified for autism. This mismatch may have a profound impact upon the overall well being of a family.

Whilst there is a lot of hub bub about early intervention for an autistic child, very little is heard about early intervention for the parents. For myself, I can confirm that I was very ill equipped in the autism department. Of all the many useful and fascinating pieces of information I had stored away, very few of them had any relevance to autism.


As we all now know, getting a jump on autism, would be tricky because of the variety pack nature of the condition. There is no point in nipping out to buy many pairs of nail clippers to distribute around your entire house and handbag, if it turns out that your child doesn’t have that kind of autism. Similarly, there is no point in spending your pregnant months on a crash course on speech pathology, if it later turns out that your child doesn’t have that kind of autism. I think that basically, we, the parents, are asking for some streamlining here. What we need is predictability so that we can formulate a plan, to make the future more certain, and adopt routines and campaigns……………..



I think I should have completed one of those multiple choice sheets whilst I was pregnant. One of those papers where you colour in the little preference boxes, to narrow down the field a little. Things that you want in your child. Things that you believe you can cope with.

For myself, I wouldn’t have wanted a mucky kind of a child. I’d much prefer a shiny clean one that sparkles a lot. I’d also want a nice placid one that I could cuddle a lot, a bit like a teddy bear, where everyone would say ‘ah, how cute.’ I wouldn’t wish to spend a lot of time catering to nutritional needs, as that would be so time consuming and tedious. Ideally, it would be nice if they had a hobby, something that was entertaining and perhaps educational.

It’s not a long list, but it’s an important one.

And do you know what? If that had been my list, not that I had an inkling of the life to come, that is exactly what I have, one way or another.

The anxious child

I read that book a couple of years ago to help mine for clues to assist my youngest son during a bout of OCD.

Now I need to find the book and re-read it, with a greater degree of care and a good deal more insight. I need new or different strategies.

Both my boys hate to leave the house. It has always been so. It's not that they're some type of exotic hot house orchids, they're merely rooted to the spot.

When they were very small, I ran duplicate campaigns, as it was too complicated to do different things for different children. One size fits all was merely a survival mechanism. Every day, I would take them out to the driveway where the traditional American mailbox sits on the white picket fence. We would gather the mail as they tried to escape into the road, run into other gardens and generally create more ruckus and angst than any casual observer might guess.

Once inside again, we would read the recipients names and ‘deliver’ the letters to the office, the kitchen and any other person fortunate enough to receive mail.

Communication of any kind, has always been a struggle. PECS helped us when words were few and far between. Since they could both read, we used PECS that also had the written word beneath. Written instructions were usually more successful than oral verbal prompts. This is part explains why neither of them use the telephone, abhor the telephone. Once they went to school, this ‘chore’ fizzled out, as so many of my campaigns have. But they keep growing bigger, both the campaigns and the children.

..............


My eldest son catapaults into the room in a state a great agitation. I lay down the book, “The Anxious Child,” open at page three.
“We made a deal so it’s all gonna be o.k,” he announces breathlessly. I notice spouse reversing out of the driveway and speeding away.
“Great. I’m glad you sorted it out with Dad.”
“Oh no! I forgot the deal already!”
“Never mind. Dad will remember the deal. When he comes back we can ask him about it.”
“No, no, no. I need to know the deal now!” I give it my best shot, “well, when he comes home after his hair cut, he’s going to take you to Target where you can choose a new prize.”
“Oh yes, that’s right, I remember now. That’s the deal.” He was unable to choose his prize. A reward from the teacher for a job well done, at the end of the first week of school on Friday. Now it is Saturday. We, his feeble minded parents, are unable to deal with the constant barrage of questions; ‘how many days until next Friday? The next 'prize' day. How many minutes until next Friday, how many seconds until next Friday?’

“How long is he gonna be?”
“I don’t know dear. Er, perhaps an hour. Let’s play with the marbles until he gets home.”
“I don’t like marbles, they’re no fun. When’s he gonna be home? I need to go and choose my prize?” I pick a number.
“He’ll be here in 60 minutes, 360 seconds. Let’s set the timer together.”
“That’s gonna take forever!” he wails.

We try pokemon, trading cards, magnets and stories. Nothing distracts and engages him. We will not have ‘electronics time’ for another 8 and a half hours. His anxiety about the passage of time, supercedes all other concerns or interests. He stares at the timer, which I do not consider to be of any assistance. “It’s not moving!” he wails. I look at the mountain of laundry that also seeks my attention, if anyone is able to go to bed tonight in clean linen.

The desperate clutch at straws, “I know, I’ll telephone him as ask how long he’s going to be!” The coward passes the buck. I check the number and start to dial. As my fingers stab the buttons, I formulate a cunning plan. “ I’ll talk to Dad for a moment and then I’ll tell him you want to ask him a question.” His eyes widen like saucers, “but I can’t!”
“Yes you can, you’re 8 now. Daddy would love to hear you talk to him on the phone.” So would a lot of other people, myself included. He has never spoken on the phone to anyway, not even a toy one.
“But it might be the wrong number!”
“If it’s the wrong number, you can just say ‘sorry, wrong number,’ and put the receiver down. It’s not a problem lovey.”
“But I would make a mistake.”
“We all makes mistakes. Little mistakes like that aren’t important, nothing to worry about.”
“But it might be a bad man, a burgular, a thief. Someone might wanna steal me.”

I am so out of my depth. With a speech delay there was automatically a little time built into an exchange. This gave me the chance to think and strategize. For years I have been counting to fifteen, including ‘ands’, waiting for him to respond. Now, he’s so far ahead of me that I’m trailing behind, if not drowning. The rings stop and reroute to our home answering machine! Typical. I replace the receiver. “What he say? When’s he gonna be home?”
“I don’t know dear he didn’t pick up.” I rake my fingers through my hair and rack my brain. “Let’s see, what shall we do until he comes home dear?”
“Hey! Look mum.” He points to the window and continues, “the mail man’s here. How about we go and get the mail and sort it.”

5 years too late, is soon enough.

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Otherwise, you can check out my other life over "here."

Wordless Wednesday #3

This is an old picture of my daughter. It was taken when we believed that the boys had trouble recognising facial expressions and refused to look at pictures or images of faces, short of line drawings. She was delighted to take centre stage and provide us with lots of portraits to demonstrate different emotions. We hoped that they'd be more willing to look at their sister's face in a photograph, and they were.












I can't remember how long we worked upon that particular campaign as it was a long time ago and we knew very little about autism then. However, I do know now, that it was probably one of my more futile campaigns, but hindsight is so often 20/20 as "Kristina Chew" points out in her recent "post."

Even though this is supposed to be wordless Wednesday, some things just don't make any sense without a matt and a frame, or what we in the trade call "scaffolding."

If you're in need of a little giggle, interested in lineage, focus and details, then scroll down for a little more, or a double post.

A Germ free Thoroughbred

Cleanliness may be next to something or other, but around this particular household, we aim to keep the germ count as low as possible. To achieve this goal, it is my habit to use ‘Clorox loo blocks.’ In America, I am given to understand that they also go by the unfortunate term ‘toilet cakes.’ I pop them cistern to help provide a sanitary conditions for those with bathroom challenges. Today I use blue sanitary blocks because they were cheaper, and my Scottish ancestry refuses to die.

Life in the modern age is full of conveniences to make this goal easier to achieve, sanitary conditions rather than penny pinching, that is to say.

Disposable wipes are now commonplace and flushable ones are available to clog up the environment at an ever faster pace.

Whilst my boys require far less assistance than they once did, but I am always careful to be on hand, ready for when my services are needed. I have purely selfish motivations, the dual goals to minimize the laundry and maintain cleanliness.

“I am need dah helping!” he bellows, even though I am leaning on the door jam at his side.
“Fair enough.” I take a step towards him.
“Why it is?” he squalks without reference to anything at all.
“Why is what dear?”
“Why it is blue?”
“Oh, the water is blue to kill any germs, keep it pure, now bend over so that I can clean your botty.” He flips up like an elastic band, “ooo you cannot be saying dat word. Dat is a potty word. Dat is a bad word.”
“Since when, I mean why is it a potty word? Who said it was a bad, er……rude word?”
“Well it be rhyme wiv potty.”
“Are all words that rhyme with ‘potty’ also bad words?” Who made him the head of the word police all of a sudden?
“Um…..no but ‘bot UM” is dah foreign word. We do not be talking dah foreign, we be talking dah English.” Could have fooled me buddy!
“So what is the polite word? What do we use instead?” How can I learn, memorise and apply, an entirely new word for this part of one’s anatomy, now that I am on a par with the ancient mariner in experience, if not quite in chronological age?
“Well,…..I fink dat dah nice peoples are be saying ‘tush’!”
“Oh really. Well that’s very good of you to let me know. Now who exactly are these nice people who have been correcting……helping you?”
“Oh I cannot be telling you dat.”
“Why not?”
“Because I bin bad.”
“You? Bad! Perish the thought. Never mind, you can tell me, I’m your mum remember.”
“Well I was bein dah ear wig. I was listen to dah girls words.”
“Which girls’ words.”
“Dah girls in dah bathroom.” I am just debating how to tackle this new discovery in a tactful manner, when he lurches off on a tangent, as he startles again, “ooo you are dah bouncy!” I cannot identify any part of my ancient carcass with any degree of bounce or jiggle left.

“Where dear?”
“Der!” He points and then clasps the underside of my wrist. “Looky dere!”
“Oh that’s my pulse,” I add unhelpfully, although proof of life.
“You are dah germ?”
“Pardon?”
“Um…..you are have dah germs in yur body?”
“Yes, everyone has a certain amount of germs in their body, but we have antibodies to kill them.” I realize what I have just said, out loud.
“You have dah germs and dah ants in yur body?” he asks with an air of incredulity which I share.
“Well……um……you see….”
“It is good den.”
“What is good dear?”
“Dat you have dah blue blood like dah toilet.”

Warm the Globe

Warm the Globe

Vic Grace has started something wonderful, and Barb at Skittles' Place has passed the warmth along to me ;-)

"As we are all aware, blogging does give us the opportunity to reach out and yes, "touch someone" by our words, pictures, links in our blogs and by our comments to fellow bloggers as well.

Think about this - in a world today that is too often filled with news of wars all over the world, fears about terrorism, following newspaper and tv news reports about crime, gangs, and you name it of all the bad things we hear about everyday, wouldn't it be a wonderful thing if we, each of us blogging in our own little space, could actually spread the word through friendship and help, through that little bit of effort, to bring people together, united in a common goal of international friendship?"

All you have to do is copy this post with the list of links below. Combine the previous links with my tags. Add some tags of your own. As others do the same we get the word out about a lot of great blogs. Eventually we may circumnavigate the globe.

Debo Blue at "A Blue State of Mind"
Sasha at "A Day in the Life of Sasha Stinerova"
Maddie at
Singing Owl at "Pastorette Ponderings"
Barb at "Skittles Place"
Mau at "It's About Time"
Jen at "Creatif"
The Meloncutter at "Meloncutter's Musings"
Sognatrice in Calabria, Italy at "Bleeding Espresso"
Keith at "10 Years Running Blind"
Dave at "Rather Than Working"
Linda at "Are We There Yet?"
Dorothy at "Overthehill Boomer Chick"
Patois at "Whee! All The Way Home"
Stine at "Mother's Home"
Smalltown RN at "A Place I Call Home"
Shelby at "Time With Shelby"
Any Apples
BoggyWoggy's Cache
Erika Jean
My Dogs Keep Me Sane
Rambling Shan
Random Autumness
The Turtle Parade

Runs in the family

My mother often described me as a demonstrative little girl.

She always said it as if she was ever so slightly surprised. A maverick.

It’s not that my family was unaffectionate, it’s more that they felt no pressing need to demonstrate their love openly and certainly not publicly. Such things didn’t need to be said. A given. It’s a common enough theme, a cultural quirk of a certain generation and class, that doesn’t translate very well.

Every night my mother would tuck me into bed. She would pull the folded top sheet taught, snap, and tuck in the end. I was pinned tight and secure, “night, night dear,” she would say as she kissed me. I always wanted her to stay longer. I loved to be with her. I wanted to be kissed, cuddled and stroked into slumber, but that was only for babies.

When I went to boarding school at 11.

I quickly discovered that among my many faults, one of my more serious inadequacies was an inability to make a bed with hospital corners. Dormitories had to be ready for inspection before school. If your efforts weren’t up the mark, then the bed would be stripped for you to start again. Making a bed from scratch when you are half the size of the bed, is no mean feat. I failed at this feat on a daily basis. This failure led to additional failures. The time spent attempting to make the bed again, meant that I was late for class. If you were late for class there were penalties. I scored very highly in the penalty department and spent many a long hour in penance at the school chapel, praying for the ability to make a bed with hospital corners.

My prayers were answered and by mid term I had mastered the art of bed making. The bonus of superior bed making skills was that when you slipped between the chilly sheets after saying your prayers, if you were good at wiggling, you could hold your breath and shimmy into bed, and enjoy the tight hold of comforting bed linen. It was almost as if you were back at home. If you closed your eyes and squeezed, you could almost see your mother’s face among the fuzzy specks.

That was about as close as you’d get to a maternal influence. Although the nuns were dutiful and often kind, they were at best ‘Sisters.’ The nearest approximation was the Mother Superior but this was a misnomer if ever there was one. They were all untouchable, a message that was loud, clear and visible by the absence of hands, which lay beneath their habits, clasped in prayer.

I learned a great many useful skills during those long years in a cloistered environment. I learned how to run but look as if I was walking. When my older sister left, I had no translator. Instead of huddling in the toilets so that she could read me my weekly letter from my mother, I had to learn to decipher her scrawl for myself. I found night time entertainment in ouija boards and poker. How to recognize cards from the wrong side and how to read palms. I learned to whisper without moving my lips, and how to fold my skirt to protect my knees during the many endless hours of prayer. This is the true price of private education, a solid investment for your child’s future inheritance.

I’m glad to say that all my children are demonstrative and affectionate. This is no surprise to me, more of a delight. The girls wear their hearts on their sleeves, quick to anger but quick to forgive and forget. The boys are more volatile than the girls, which makes a lot of wild fires and flare ups. We females kiss our faces, lips, cheeks, foreheads and noses.

The boys? Well they’re a bit short in the social skills department. Whilst many boys of their age become aware of cooties, mine, so far, are blissfully unaware. They’ll kiss anyone, boys as well as girls. They know it’s a sign of affection, it matches and demonstrates a feeling. It’s not that they’re indiscriminent, far from it, but they’re impulsive and without peer pressure.

With me? Well, they kiss whatever is nearest, a knee, a hip, a forearm, an elbow. It’s all progress, because they’re so much taller these days. I predict with a certain degree of confidence that in the not too distant future, they’ll kiss the top of grey haired head, if I’m very lucky and play my cards right.

Poker not Old Maid please.

Chat, chat, chat – breaking News

From a few days ago.........

Good parents don’t typecast their children.

Good parents avoid labels such as ‘Henry, our little athlete, Mary our little mother, Poppy our little jokester.’

There are so many reasons why it is a mistake to label our children. Once they’ve been cast, they often strive to meet those expectations. Even when they are mis-labeled, the effect can still be profound. Parents can miss a whole slew of information because they’re not looking for it. If the ‘mother’ child makes a joke, the parent fails to notice, because that isn’t the jokey child. If the jokey child runs a four minute mile, no-one notices. We see what we expect to see, we miss anything and everything that doesn’t fit into our preconceived perspective. Or maybe that’s just me?


“I’ll make an appointment as soon as they’re open dear.”
“Now?”
“No at 9:00, they open at nine.”
“What time is it now?”
“Er….7:21,” I scurry after him like a jogging buddy even though I am terminally allergic to any form of exercise.
“How many minutes?”
“Er…….99.”
“How many seconds?”
“Er…………………..five hundred……five hundred and forty, I think?”
“I will have a different pill?” He has lost the ‘non-verbal’ part of his label. I have lost my marbles.
“Maybe, or perhaps a smaller one. Do you remember the doctor showed you the three sizes of pills”
“Yes. It is the pill that gives me the headache?”
“Yes I think so.”

As we chat, he moves. My slow lugubrious, laborious, lethargic 8 year old marches swiftly around the house and I follow in his wake. When I say 'march,' I mean exactly that. Instead of walking on his tippy, tippy toes, digits splayed, he has his heels on the ground, a rare and quite startling alteration, but only one of so many. His hands touch the furniture in time to the band of his feet, but his head flicks towards me at regular intervals.
“As you were saying….” he says, which nearly makes me trip over my own feet.
“I was? What was I saying?”
“You were saying about tummy aches.”
“I was?”
“Yes. You said that they weren’t as bad as headaches.” Where has my recall gone?
“Ah yes. Well I don’t really know, but I think that headaches are so bad that you can’t do anything, just lie down in bed, but with tummy aches you can keep going.” However, I’m not really sure that I can keep going? It is only 7:22 in the morning. The pill has been in his system 40 minutes and I am already completely out of my depth, trotting behind my son, trying to catch every word. I am so muddled and befuddled.

I have been told that most people are already set in their ways by their early 30's rather than their 40's. We become incapable of adopting a major change. At best, we can hope to alter less than 5% of our character, behaviour and opinions. Imagine that! A titchy little 5%. The only caveat to this research is where a person has a life altering catastrophe, such a near death experience. Those individuals cast off the shackles of the past and are reborn. I had accepted this fact as truth. The idiom 'old stick in the mud,' could have been tattooed on my forehead, but now, evidence to the contrary blasts me on a daily basis.

“Wait up! I’ll be right back.” He lifts a hand in a parting farewell gesture as his body shifts into super fast gear and whizzes out of the kitchen. I scramble after him, through the galley, past the utility room, into the garage, out of the door, down the path I scamper after the galloping, sneaker covered, feet of my son.

This isn’t my runner. This isn’t my Houdini, the energizer bunny that spins into the path of oncoming traffic. This is my dormouse, the sleepy, gentle child curled in a teapot.

This is the wrong son doing the wrong thing. I hear the traffic and see my shambolic boy, as he widens the gap between us. I run. I see the traffic. I run faster. I hear the hoot, the blare of a horn. I fly, dressing gown gaping to rugby tackle him to the ground.

It only seems a few seconds ago that I was too scared to correct his speech, fearful that the few words that he spoke voluntarily, would dry up. This is all so new, relatively. I’ve been reluctant to risk correction, short of rephrasing and repeating the right version. Far to scared to extinguish the spark.

“What are you doing mum?” he asks slightly dazed, sprawled on the concrete.
I squeeze him tight and run an eye over him to see how much damage I’ve caused.
“It’s o.k. mum, I’m not hurt, er hurted, I mean hurt, I was right the first time!”
“Oh.”
“What is it, what’s wrong, why are you crying? I only went to get the newspaper for you! Here, it’s got a great picture on the front!”


Post script - please do not rush out to your paediatrician based on this post. There is a huge downside that I've not had a chance to compose, other than the OCD. There is no such thing as a free lunch.

The Ancient Mariner

Where is my compass when I need it?

Or should that rather be a sexton? Or a map?

But I have learned one new thing; anxiety is contagious, or should that be infectious?

My older son’s obsession with the passage of time has grown to gargantuan proportions. I am unable to field his constant question, ‘how long until electronics?’ Nothing distracts him from the passing seconds displayed on the timer. He carries it around with him and glances at the figures with every breath. I’m not sure if I’m anxious or just plain ratty at the harassment, but I do know that it’s not healthy for either of us.

We will both be arithmetical athletes if he keeps up at this rate. There are insufficient seconds between the seconds, for me to give any attention to my other children and responsibilities. It is only possible to read a couple of words or part of a line about “Your Anxious Child,” which means that I am no closer to finding an appropriate coping strategy for any of us. “It’s taking too long” he wails, interspersed with “how many minutes until electronics? No, no, no, I mean how many seconds?” He will wear out his vocal chords if he keeps twanging them in the manner. They’re not used to such exercise.

I am in the midst of circular thought patterns myself, when it dawns on me that another cause of concern is that he has also failed to play with his electronics for the last few days. When the designated time, 5:30 p.m. finally arrives, instead of pounding off to grab one of the coveted toys, he ambles around listlessly. After we’ve started our bedtime routine after supper, it occurs to him that he has missed ‘electronics’ time again. I am uncertain how this turn of events has come about?



If we spend another 24 hours like this, I might as well book my spot in a padded cell. There again, that might give me a few minutes to read, learn, strategize and come up with some kind of new campaign, no matter how inadequate it eventually turns out to be. How can he have so many words and yet I have none, or at least not the right ones?

As the timer starts beeping he dashes to my side to wave it around in a storm of ecstasy, “it’s 5:30, it’s electronics time, at last! I thought it would never come! I’m so glad that’s all over with.” He deflates into the sofa with a sigh. “Now I can relax, that’s so much better.”

His fingers turn the pages of one of the manuals to one of his games, as he studies the pictures and instructions.

"Um.....aren't you going to play with your...Gameboy.....or something?" I offer tentatively now that he appears to be at peace.
"Nah!.....whatever," he adds with all the charm of a teenager. Whatever! Whatever? Don't you 'whatever' me matey! We have endured an entire day, second by second, and now all we have is 'whatever!' I am unfamiliar with 'young people speak,' but even I know that this roughly translates to 'it is a trifle of no consequence.' Where is all this 'young people speak' coming from? 'A trifle of no consequence' does not match today's experience. I am completely mystified, a condition which I believe is rapidly becoming my new status.

Much later, when I tuck him into bed at eight, he realizes that another 24 hours has passed, during which time he has failed to play any electronics.

We have turned into a family of rampant, racing radicals, not the free kind.

Pass me the monkey nuts, I need to re-energize before I fall off my wheel.

Naughty Nicholas

The names have not been changed to protect the anonymity of the players.

“Stop it Nicholas!” he barks at a sandy haired little boy. My boys look at Nicholas and stop doing what they are doing.
“Not like that! Here do it this way. Are you listening to me?” Nicholas isn’t listening. My boys are listening. They are both unusually quiet, uncommonly still.
“Geez you’re so dumb sometimes. Squeeze the red button why dontcha?” Nicholas doesn’t squeeze the red button. Nicholas’ Dad helps Nicholas’ thumb squeeze the red button, “there. See? That’s how you do it.”

“Ouch!” squeaks Nicholas. Two additional ‘ouches’ echo, but Nicholas’ Dad doesn’t notice. I think I dislike Nicholas’ Dad, but say nothing. I say nothing because one of my sons is wrapped around my ankles and I’m carrying a six and a half year old, the epitomy of an over protective and incompetent parent. We wait. It will be our turn soon. I remind myself that we all have bad days. I would not like anyone to closely observe one of our bad days. I remind myself that we are enjoying an exceptionally good day. Lucky us!

I am surprised that my boys are waiting so patiently. I am also surprised that they appear to be watching with close care and intense attention.

One of my boys learns by observation. He will watch whilst somebody else does a task. He’ll watch again, and again, and again, until he’s ready. When he’s ready he will make his first attempt. He rarely gets it right the first time. No-one is allowed to help him. He will scream uproariously with each attempt until he finally masters the new skill.

We watch and learn.



“Give me that,” snaps Dad, as he wrestles the controls from Nicholas. Nicholas pulls a face, so do my boys. “Enough with the attitude!” snarls Nicholas’ dad. I shift the weight on my hip a little as Nicholas looks at me with a clear blue gaze. I smile a bit, then I remember that my teeth are no longer off limits. I flash him my enamel with a glint of retainer. He smiles back. “Pay attention Nicholas or you’ll never learn anything.” His head snaps back to his dad. “Don’t’ you know it’s rude to stare at…. er……. people!” I glance away because I suspect that I am blushing or blanching.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear.”
“I am stare at people?”
“Oh no, I don’t think you ever stare at people, at least not that I’ve noticed.”
“I am rude?”
“No, not rude.”
“We are have a turn?”
“Yes, we shall soon.”

I think perhaps Nicholas’ dad overhears us.

“Come on Nicholas. Lets give these guys a turn, you’re no good at it anyway.” Nicholas’ dad pulls Nicholas from the seat and moves off to another exhibit. My son unravels himself from my feet and tiptoes cautiously onto the empty, warm seat. My other son slowly and gently slithers down from my hip and steps tentatively towards the same seat. It is very quiet. Their two little bottoms shuffle a bit to make room for each other.
“O.k. let see if we can get this thing to work,” I offer, seeing as how I am a poor teacher in the technology department. Two little faces turn towards me. They are not smiling even though they now have the opportunity to exploit their time and enjoy the activity that they have waited for so patiently.
“Mom?”
“Yes dear?”
“Nicholas’ dad is naughty.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

By other parents, such as myself have committed greater "crimes."

How do you spread a little luck and rats to the "theory of mind?"

The Discovery Channel and fine tuning

For Carolyn and David - hope your translation powers are up to par?

“I have been dah discovered!”
“Really? What have you discovered dear?”
“I have discovered……dat…….I am not liking dah green eggs and ham.” I look at him. Is he telling something that I don’t already know? Something that he didn’t know? Or is this just a way of exercising the use of a new favourite word ‘discovered’?
“Well thank you so much for telling me that dear.” It’s genuine, I really am glad that he now wishes to share little matters of a trivial or social nature.
“D’you know wot?”
“What dear?”
“Dere are uvver fings dat I am discovered too!”
“I’m sure there are. Would you like to tell me some of them perhaps?”
“No! Dey are dah secret discovered.”
“Secrets. Oh you shouldn’t have any secrets, well at least you shouldn’t have any secrets from me. Never have secrets from your mum.” I deliver this in what I hope is an authoritative tone or maybe a warning.
“Er…..what it is?”
“What is what dear?”
“Dah voice?”
“What voice?”
“Er…..yur voice dat is coming from you?”
“Um?”
“I mean it is dah lagoon.”
“What is a lagoon?”
“Yur voice is dah lagoon.”
“It is?”
He pulls a scary face, leers with claw hands by his ears, to mimic a breathy horror movie tone, “yes, you are dah secret of dah black lagoon.”

Oh dear! It seems I’ll have to mind my tone, and moderate my moan.

High definition

I have always been a very poor judge of character, a failing that my mother takes great care to remind me about, at frequent intervals.

Over the years, my small and motley circle of friends, has been a source of great angst for my mother. They all had faults and failings, not the least of which, was being the wrong type of person. Lame ducks, losers and users, were inaccurate descriptions that didn’t match my experience. “Where do you find them?” she would sigh, as if I had deliberately chosen my pals to annoy her. If there had been a ‘discernment’ class available in those days, I would have been signed up for one on one tuition, no doubt.
……

The car park is nearly full as we search for a space. There are a great number of people milling around dressed in strange attire. The majority wear head gear, with a high count of straw hats. My suspicions are confirmed by a sign that indicates an Art’s Festival Today. Today, we are going to the Tech Museum in San Jose. All of us.

The crowd is dressed unfashionably. This is not conventional mall clothing. Instead there is a colourful display, a patchwork of individuality. They all deserve prizes for uniqueness.

She catches my eye because she’s just like me. Similar age, wild hair and freckles. We all know that excessively thin people should never expose too much flesh, unless they wish to be mistaken for a wire clothes hanger or it’s Halloween. Her naked back is a xylophone rack, jutting hip bones and gnarled elbows. I lose her in the crush of the crowd as I move my mob in the general direction of the museum.

We have been coming here for approximately three years, which means it is familiar territory and not scary, either for them or me, but for different reasons. I know that if I lose anyone, they will each gravitate to their favourite spots: one to the roller coaster simulator, one to the car simulator, one to the seismology area.


I see a child, maybe ten years old, who wears loose, scarlet shorts and black, wooly, knee length socks. It is August. It is California. It is 102 degrees in the shade. His feet are shod in sandals that are much too large, which makes it even more difficult for him to walk on his tippy toes. His arms are bent at the elbow, his fingers fiddle with his lips. If I knew him at all I would kiss his tousled, un-brushed hair.

A real woman of generous proportions displays more breast flesh than is common during daylight hours, indoors with efficient air conditioning. It’s not the spaghetti straps that that dig into the folds that draw my attention, but the small penny sized scar nearby the overflowing cup. She calls to her chum, “go get your head examined by that machine!” She glances at me as I stifle a giggle, head to toe, toe to head. I wither under her gaze. I tell my rude eyes to blink and stop staring at the headlights, before I am mown down and quite rightly so. "I just thought it was funny....." I mumble, "what you said I mean, to your friend." She smiles back me, "right!" I see her perfect movie star little teeth and warm, plush lips.



It’s not often that you have the chance to see so many small people who either have their arms folded, or clasp their hands with the high tension grip of public anxiety.


I spot her again, the scrawny one, with her significant other, as they attempt to dance in time with the Macarena simulator. Rarely does one witness such a public display of the truly un-coordinated. It could so easily be humiliating if it wasn’t for their humility. It is hilarious to watch. Their hilarity is infectious. She bends down to retrieve her straw hat. Her backless dress gapes at the front. I glimpse straight through to her knickers, or rather, her boxer shorts. I feel a pang of guilt. This is probably the only other woman on the planet who also wears boxer shorts under a frock, because life is unpredictable. You never know when you might have to climb a tree or a ladder, or scoot down a fireman's pole. It's a safety response for mother's who deal with flight or fight. I wonder if she hangs from monkey bars too? She clasps the hat to her chest, breathless from dancing.


I see master black socks skip over to her and huddle into his mother’s bird like rib cage. There is no soft bosom to cushion his skull. I watch her skinny, sinewy arm slither around his shoulders for a gentle embrace. Her sharp chin rests on the nest of his unruly hair. Her eyes squeeze tight. Her mouth widens into a huge, expansive smile. The warmth of her happiness glows.

Maybe she’s skinny because of jaw surgery too? I wonder if she had to carry her son and for how long? I wonder what her name is or his? I am full of silent questions, as I don’t want to break the spell.

Can you define a person in a sentence? Can you get under their skin? Or try?

To me she’s an eight stone heavy weight with the strength of a Rhino, but then, what do I know?





So here’s to emancipation, not emaciation and friendship.

Cheers!

Wordless Wednesday #2

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I think I need a widget? Any advice gratefully received.

Wordless Wednesday - sort of #1

Paper cuts

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Yes, I know they hurt, paper cuts that is to say.

Indeed they hurt proportionately more than most other kinds of cuts.

I’m not sure why it is that we’ve not experienced them prior to this point. I suspect it has something to do with his aversion to the texture of paper, which he generally avoids because of his tactile defensiveness.

“How can I restart life?” he shrieks with his finger poised under the running tap water. His forearm is steadied by the edge of the sink but the rest of his body jangles and sparks. The sound is deafening as he growls, barks and makes rooster noises in-between the sentences.
“I’m gonna die!” he bellows. His older brother comes over to observe and comment, “have I ever had a paper cut before?”
“No I don’t think so.”
“I think maybe I am allergic to paper. Can you tell my teacher that I’m allergic to paper coz I don’t wanna die either.” His brother continues to scream, “I’m too young to die!”
“Is he really gonna die? Maybe we should take him to the ER?”
“I’m too old to be a bird!” he shrieks and flaps. I push a damp face cloth into the mouth that spits and snaps at the air, to give him something to bite on. The kettle clicks off and puffs of steam rises. “Don’t burn him mum, he’s not been that bad. Don’t worry little guy, you’re gonna be o.k. mum’s not gonna burn you honest!” I am so grateful that there isn’t a social worker lurking around to report me to the authorities. I have no idea what to do about the ever blossoming OCD tendencies in the boys which keep popping out at unexpected moments.

Every few minutes he erupts, jumping jack style, from his position on the step and hurtles off with muffled cries to the other room. He bounces frantically on the trampolene like a thing possessed. It would be funny to observe if it weren’t quite so extraordinary to witness. He dashes back to the sink and the water.

He remains in this position for a long time. When the time is right, he nips off to collect some entertainment, a book, and then returns to the tap. The water flows over his left hand and he holds the pages of the book in his right. I consider this to be the equivalent of getting back on a horse after a fall. I am delighted with this coping mechanism. I flick on the garbage disposal unit to empty the debris that’s piling up as the sink fills. I remember a second to late, that the noise and the whirring blades are likely set him off.

They don’t set him off. Instead they set off his brother who comes charging into the room to defend him. “Don’t chop off his fingers! He’s not been that bad! He needs his fingers for school tomorrow! He can’t go without his fingers.”

This scenario continues for an hour and fifty minutes. I eventually transfer him to the sofa where we read Calvin and Hobbes and cuddle, whilst his legs tap rhythmically on the trampolene.

Spouse returns home unusually early. “It’s unusually quiet around here,” he murmurs as his head snakes around to check that he has returned to the correct den, in daylight hours. "Nice to see you sitting down for a change. You should try and take things more easy." His twitchy but deflated son, skitters off on a mission. He is replaced by his older brother and a torrent of questions. He stands stock still, blanched, as his son blasts him with questions that revolve around the duration of life, the many hazards of life, and life as we no longer know it.

I sip my tea. Stone cold. “I thought it would be nice to come home in time for dinner for a change.” I gulp. Dinner? How come I didn’t get around to it today? Is it that time already? Where has the day gone? I have reached an all time low in productivity. It seems so unimportant now that neither of the boys ever eats anything. I shall be stripped of my title, 'home maker.' A traitor to the cause, a woman who makes nothing. My tiny universe has been turned upside down. I was so sure that I'd become more efficient as they grew older, not less so!
He rubs his chin, “oh dear, I’m sorry,” he offers as I am covered with confusion. “I know! How about we go out for dinner instead, a real treat.”
“Do you know anywhere local that serves Ensure?”

[two chocolate and one vanilla please]

I am grateful to anyone who doesn't point out that the 'remain clothed at all times' campaign, has failed.

That darned Cat in the Hat!

“Can can, can you do the can can, if you can then I can,” he sings as he spins, interspersed with Pokemon noises, a surreal combination at the best of times.

I find it more difficult than usual to concentrate.

Whilst I have long been a fan of dear Ludwig, this modern version can be intensely annoying after a few hours. I hope that this "perseveration" will make him oblivious, as we have company.

The play date victim is a sweet natured, tolerant, typically developing girl.

The girls play.

The boys spin.

This faultless visitor has one minor idiosyncrasy that is of minute concern. Every sentence she utters is accompanied by the phrase ‘Ohmygod.’ I know that it is the verbal equivalent of ‘er,’ ‘um’ or ‘actually,’ but it is disconcerting for elderly foreigners who are set in their ways, such as myself.

After her last visit, it took a great deal of time to stop the boys from adding this 'word' to their vocabulary bank. Their version ‘oh my gosh’ sounds distinctly fake, but in a pool of fake, one more drop makes no difference, or so I like to think.

All too often, like Pavlov and his pooches, we make associations, one thing becomes inextricably linked with another. You smell freshly baked bread and you suddenly feel hungry. Your cell phone rings and you immediately answer it, even though you are conducting a conversation with another real human being, face to face. You see blood, you feel faint. You see Dad on the driveway, you say “hello Dad.” You see Jane on the playground, you say “hello Omygod.”

In the 95 degree heat, I need clothes of gossamer but slightly less revealing. I set the thermostat to 80 in the family room and leave the rest of the house to roast. For two pins I’d abandon the ‘you must remain dressed at all times’ campaign, but we must maintain standards, or rather, I must. It would never do to be starkers in my own home, as that isn’t the kind of modeling I’m cut out for. After 12 years in the country, I admit that I need to go on the ‘how your air conditioning works’ course. I squirt myself with a water bottle and pay attention.

My youngest son, "Mr. 17 foods," is experimenting with different cereals. He has also spent the last few days quoting huge chunks of “Green Eggs and Ham.” I am uncertain whether there is a connection or not? I am confident that his consumption of ham or eggs of any hue, are still many light years away.

His older brother is closeted in the bathroom. His little brother approaches the bathroom bearing one Alpha-bit in a perfect pincher grip. There is a very large Cheshire Cat grin pinned to his countenance and his eyebrows flicker like Grocho Marx.

“Hello der!” he beams. “Would you like to try one?” He waves the Alpha-bit before his brother’s face. This would be a particularly nauseous kind of sugary pap, with no discernible nutritional value whatsoever.
“I’m busy! Get out man.” My 'non-verbal' 8 year old has been transformed. He sits on the toilet defending his privacy, now that acknowledges that he needs some, privacy that is to say. I have yet to adjust to his new speech. I am unfamiliar with many of the hip phrases that he trots out with ease. I need to research who he is keeping company with? Where has he learned all these easy pat phrases from? Why has his mid-Atlantic accent turned all hip hop? I need to attend a hip hop crash course for fossils.

“Try one, you will like it, you will see!” His voice is light, enticing, a tease.
“No way. Go away man. Can't yur see I'm busy!” Usually it is all of us trying to persuade him to eat. It is so bizarre to watch him try and be the persuader.
“Try it, try it and you will see!”
“Oh man! What is wrong with you! What kinda crazy talk are yah doin?”

He skips, hops and dances before his trapped brother like a marionette on speed.
“Would you like it here or dere?” he fizzles and extends his body, slow motion, into an exaggerated sign post in the direction of the table.
“You are crazy man! Give me a break dude.” I am inclined to concur. This scene is entirely the wrong way around.

The girls appear just as the trapee is making his escape from the tiny bathroom. His little brother is like a darting mosquito, taunting his victim as he hovers and flits, still clutching the single Alpha-bit. The girls giggle, both boys become aware that they have an audience. He grabs a second Alpha-bit in the other hand. Both arms wave around, “would you like dem in a house? Would you like dem wiv a mouse?” The girls giggle. He continues, relentless, without mercy, spurred on by the girls.
"Can you stop with the "motor mouth" already!" He slaps his forehead in exasperation, “o.k. den!” His tormentor pops one Alpha-bit into the open mouth and one into his own mouth. Both boys shriek, but for different reasons. Both girls shriek in surprise. Everyone blinks at the same time to chorus ‘ohmygod!’ for many different reasons.

So this, my fine friends, is what we in the trade, mean by negative reinforcement.

Extraction by fair means or foul

I decide that I no longer care for Amazon’s packaging system.

It has degenerated from ‘open with a pair of scissors and collapse the box with a cleaver,’ to ‘open box with a chain saw.’

I have struggled to extract the contents for some minutes but avoided drawing blood.

My youngest son presents himself before me, amid the carnage of the semi opened packages. He pauses to gain composure and then makes his announcement.
“Look mummy! I am choosed my own cloves.”
“Indeed! And you put them on your body too!”

I cheer, as wonder how he has managed to squeeze himself into clothes put aside for the rag bag. Not only has he physically grown three of four inches since he last wore that ensemble, but it would appear that he also branches out into other pastures new. It is a rare moment to witness, when your child does something willingly, independently and successfully. Not even a prompt. I remind myself, again, that this is what independence looks like. It may not be my version but it’s still undeniable. I admire my corseted son and his cheesy grin for a job well done.

The sleeves are tight enough to restrict blood flow. The hem of his T-shirt gradually creeps up. The waistband on his trousers, slowly creeps down. The bikini effect. I wonder if I should suggest a change of attire but don’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. It occurs to me, that this may be a gift in disguise. Nudity will be a thing of the past, since he will be unable to remove his skin tight clothing. Now that’s what I call a fringe benefit! I’ll need a can opener to extract him myself, or maybe a chainsaw?

He sucks in his cheeks and puckers his lips, goldfish style to ask, “why I am not dah puffer fish?”
“Er well, you certainly swim like a fish.”
Or rather a crab! He groans as he exhales and his tummy pops out.
“No! I am meaning that I need to be small, er smaller……fin as dah puffer fish when he is not puffed.”

I do not like green eggs or otherwise

I feel like a pedestrian in the middle of dodgem cars.
“I can hear my own bones!” he splutters and stretches like an athlete.

The other one bellows, “In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!” My mantra singer. This is interspersed with the many lines of Dr.Seuss that he has committed to memory, especially the Green Eggs and Ham volume. Whilst I dither whether on not to buy ear protectors for either or both of the boys, it occurs to me that I may be in greater need myself, as the ear plugs just aren’t up to the job any more.

Motor mouth continues relentlessly. His big brother complains, “you are just so annoying. You are so loud. You’re driving me crazy with all your "motor mouth talk." Mom, he’s bothering me.” This stream of words seems to be a replacement for pouncing and throttling the breath out of him. I consider this to be an all round improvement all round, in a carousel kind of a way. “Red alert, red alert, red alert,” chortles the little one. “Mom, he’s driving me crazy!”

“I know dear, I’ll just finish making the sandwiches and then we can fill up his mouth with bread.” I do a double take. Did I really say that out loud? “I mean I’ll find his vibrating spoon in a minute.” My son looks at me with wonky eye brows, deliberates a while and then announces, “don’t worry mom, I’m gonna deal with him for you,” and marches to towards the family room, the source of the incessant chatter. I drop the knife in the sink and hare on after him.

They stand face to face, much too close, nostrils flaring.
“Listen here you!”
“Red alert, red alert, red alert.”
“Why do you keep saying that? You are so annoying!”
“In the old ball game! In the old ball game! In the old ball game!”
“Can you just shut up already!”
“Red alert, red alert, red alert.”
“I’ve had enough of you for one day. You’ve been doing this all morning! Right!” He marches back into the kitchen, opens the correct drawer, rummages around in the back and whips out the vibrating spoon. Seconds later, in a smooth and seamless transition, he presents himself to his tormentor. “Here motor mouth, stick this in and chew it!”
“Eeow, that’s gross, eeow, that’s gross, eeow, that’s gross.” He summits nonetheless.



We wait. Soon, all we can hear is the buzz of the spoon and the purr of the air conditioning. A cool breeze sweeps through the house and peace reigns for a few moments.

And in my other "life".......